The Rabble: A Tale of Dubious Morality
by Callsign Godfather
Summary: A thief, too long out of the business, is called out of retirement by an old acquaintance to do one last heist. Working with a new team against all odds, will the thieves be able to stand their latest test? R&R please.
1. Author's Note

**The Rabble**

**Or**

**A Switchblade In The Night**

**A Story of Theft, Intrigue, and Dubious Morality**

**Author: Callsign "Godfather"**

**The Author Says: **I didn't expect to branch out into serious stories at any time in the near future. I've been busy as of late and haven't had much time to work on things I've been wanting to work on (I.E stories that aren't fanfiction and other, MUCH more pressing real life issues). However, after _finally _learning of the existence of the original incarnation of the infamous Fan-Fic _'My Immortal' _(ARGH THE PAIN) I've decided to set out and prove that there are writers on this site that are a cut above the rest. However, I'm also working on the Fallout fanfiction department, which means my only competition so far is Bren Tenkage (who is "Sub-Par" at best, and "Banging His Head on The Keyboard And Saving Whatever Comes Out" at worst), I think I don't have much competent competition, save for an exclusive, elite few.

Anyways, the thanks section that I've been wanting to add to my last few stories. I'd like to thank the BattleOn Forums for giving me my start on writing before so nicely banning me three times (I have my beliefs, I'm allowed to state them, I guess I'm just not allowed to state them in a forum). I'd like to thank the community at Tranquility Lane for several Fallout canon-related reasons. I'd like to thank the Star Army Roleplaying community for assisting me with honing my character menagerie to a razor's edge. Also, on a more abstract note, I'd like to thank every horrible, dick-rottingly, shit-lickingly, bollocks-chompingly, ass-rapingly horrible author I've ever had to suffer through reading, fanfiction or otherwise. Where others give me the ideas and creativity to expand and mature as a writer, you give me the drive and motivation as both a critic and author to go above and beyond my norm.

So keep doing what you're doing everyone, although I seriously suggest that the horrible writers (SMeyer) improve before anything worse happens.


	2. Prologue: Dead Lands and Valuable Tech

**Prologue**

**March 12, 2278**

It was another cold, wet day in the murk of the northern ruins that lined what were once the Great Lakes, and one man was out plying his trade somewhere in some ruined city.

The old name of the city had long since been lost in the all-engulfing anonymity of the history-swiping nuclear war that had turned this place into the hellhole it was. Even the scant few settlers that had decided to take up residence within the blasted shells of its ancient buildings hadn't given it a name. Travelers referred to the settlement and surrounding wasteland as "Anonymia" or "No-Name-ia" or just "The Dead Lands", because that was what they were, in essence. There was no wildlife, only the most stubborn of plants could take root in the poisoned soil, and the people there all had a corpse-like pallor and distant, faraway manner due to the lack of both sun and social interaction. The lands were poor, merchants were few and far between, and there was little in the way of trade. Only a few had ever decided to venture into the city.

Scant was one of those few men. His real name was Jacob Scantley, but people referred to him as Scant for two reasons: one, it was easier to remember, and two, it suited him well. Scantley only owned what he could carry, which included his clothes, some food and a gun- one of those old .41 caliber service revolvers officers from the pre-war military got as a gift, more for show than functionality, although it had killed many men before. Other than those few things, he had nothing. Anything he needed, he obtained his way.

Scant was a thief- no better way to explain his preferred trade. Some considered him the best in his business, but if anyone ever asked what he thought of himself, Scant would just reply a guy who "does his job, and just happens to do so better than some other people". People contacted him when they needed to get something done, Scant would do the job and give them what they wanted. He was reliable, savvy and, most importantly, never got caught.

As it turned out, Scant was being commissioned to steal one of the few valuable things up in The Dead Lands. A small group up there had come across what was apparently a very valuable piece of Pre-War technology that someone wanted badly enough to fork over half a million in cold, hard caps for Scant to go and get it.

Half a million would buy Scant's retirement, a thought that he had been nursing more and more over the last few months. He was going on his thirty-fifth birthday, already far beyond the threshold of youth that used to fuel his mad raids on high-security fortresses in the dead of night. Thirty-five meant it was time to slow down, to settle in a nice, quiet village, meet a cute girl, maybe even get a couple younglings and a dog (if he felt like it). And half a million in the universal currency of these United States would definitely see him on his way.

So here he was. Midnight, standing outside a well-lit building bustling with the aforementioned corpse-people, their pale skin, dark hair and skinny bodies moving about as easily as they did in the daytime. Scant crouched inside a pile of rubble from a fallen high-rise apartment complex across the street from the settlement, watching patiently as the people quietly moved about. The thief wondered what it would be like to be one of the corpse-looking people- feeling safe, completely unaware of what was about to befall them. Scant pushed the thought out of his mind as quickly as it had come; he needed to focus on the job ahead, and think about life as a civilian later.

Two of the corpse-people eventually patrolled away from a drum-brazier, heading around the back of the building, and Scant saw his chance to get inside. Shifting a piece of corrugated steel off the top of his hiding place, the thief skittered quickly down the metal and concrete piled in front of him and headed for the front door, his footsteps almost silent against the sounds of shifting metal and moaning wind mingling amongst the ruins. He made it to the door in twelve seconds flat and slipped inside, past a small knot of the pale people standing around another brazier on the ground floor.

Past that group, through the main atrium of the building, over to a red emergency stairwell, the locked door presenting no problem to the accomplished burglar. Once he was past the door, Scant ran straight up to the fourth floor of the building and through another locked emergency door. Looking about, the thief detected none of the settlement's citizens obstructing his path to the triple-locked door he had observed the previous day, looking through a pair of binoculars while perched atop a tall building nearby. Black as a shadow and silent as death, the thief crouched before the massive vault door, looking at his daunting new task.

Carefully listening using a stethoscope he had stolen from a clinic towards the outskirts of the city, Scant entered a combination into the safe and slowly swung it aside, revealing his contact's target.

It was a nondescript black box, several bare wires sticking out of the sides. Taking his backpack, Scant slipped the box into the rough leather sack, slipped it over his shoulder, and disappeared.

**A/N: **Yes, I know, this was a short chapter, and it was bare of information on anything. It has a lot to do with the plot, though, I promise. And for those who were wondering, Scant's gun is a Smith and Wesson Model 57 .41 Magnum with a six-inch blued barrel and a walnut grip. Normally it would run you up to around $1100 US, but Scant probably pinched it off some guy, so he didn't have to pay full price _

I own all of the Fallout games, but the copyrights belong to Bethesda Softworks and Interplay. Scant's gun belongs to Smith and Wesson.

If you enjoyed this first chapter, have any advice or just want to make a shout-out to yours truly, feel free to write a review and give your opinion. Don't hold back on it.


	3. The Man in the Window

**Chapter One: The Man in the Window**

**July 6, 2298, 11:48 P.M**

The man in the black long-coat pulled the hood higher over the crown of his brow. The snow was falling in thick sheets now, carried by the fierce wind that blew his frayed red scarf like a flag. The man hurried over a low rise and bolted down the other side, gloved hands clasped tightly over the canvas bag he had been tasked with carrying. He hopped over an obscured boulder and skidded around a tree trunk, always concentrating on the flickering orange lights in the distance.

He didn't know why he was going this way, or what the purpose of the run was. All he knew was that he had been tasked with delivering a package to someone in the Tumblers' village. He didn't know what the Tumblers were, or why he was delivering the package; again, he didn't ask questions- otherwise he didn't get paid. At last he reached his goal.

The target building was an imposing three-story block of concrete and mortar, with a crude sign hung over the door saying "Tumbler's Committee" in faded yellow letters. The man in the coat placed the package in front of the building as he had been instructed and then made quick tracks as he was ordered to. By the time he had left the village, the package he had left at the foot of the Tumbler's Committee building had begun to buzz and click. A searing blue light spliced through the heavens, halting the snow for a few brief moments. There was complete silence after the shriek of the light faded, then a shockwave rolled over the messenger. When he turned to look at what had happened, the messenger found himself looking down at a crater that had once been a village.

_{-Two Days Later-}_

Meanwhile, Jacob Scantley relaxed in front of a fireplace. With little Hester and Darrel sleeping soundly in their beds and his dear Melina doing likewise, the homely building rode out the blizzard that raged outside. Scantley relaxed in a plushy leather recliner he had bought from the merchant's convoy that had travelled through a few months ago. He thoroughly enjoyed the chair, its old smell and soft downy padding allowing him to pick up his feet at the end of the day and relax. He had almost forgotten that he had gained the money to buy the chair, the house around it, along with the numerous other playthings he had scattered around, plus the ring for his beautiful wife, from stealing anything that wasn't bolted down. He looked into the fireplace and stared at the creaking, crackling embers for a while before nestling his nose back into his book.

The ex-thief awoke suddenly in the depth of the night. He didn't know what had awakened him, only that his gut told him something was wrong. Scanning the room quietly, the thief straightened his rough wool sweater and examined his surroundings. The fire had burnt itself out quietly in the night, and everything lay undisturbed. The ex-thief was considering returning to his comfortable chair when he caught the movement.

It was just a slight movement; almost un-noticeable. A hump outside the old window to his left shifted around a quarter of an inch, a silver bar inching towards the base of the window. Scantley crouched low, concealing himself from view as he crept towards the fireplace. The silver bar snuck under the window and forced it open about an inch, and eight waggling fingers made their way under. As the window shifted open and Scantley crouched in a corner, watching intently, a man dressed all in black slipped in and fell onto the floor, landing with a muffled _fwump._ By the time the thief had recovered, it was too late for him to notice Scantley. The thief found himself suddenly pinned to the wall by the shaft of the fire poker that Scantley had eviscerated from the basket next to the fireplace. The man in black pathetically flailed his arms about, eventually locking arms with Scant and breaking the chokehold. Scantley broke the grapple and brandished the poker like a sword, keeping the thief at a distance.

"Who the hell are you?" The ex-thief grunted, edging towards the fireplace mantle, where his pistol was stashed. The man in black didn't respond, his hand going to his waist and producing a silver Mag-Lite. A bluish light flared and scanned Scantley's face before centering on the ceiling, casting an eerie bluish glow across the room. Scantley peered into his unwanted visitor's face for a moment, slowly lowering the gun he had finally retrieved as anger and confusion faded into mild shock at the black-clad man sat cross-legged on the floor, grinning.

"Rackenham?" The ex-thief whispered in disbelief. Sure enough, the man nodded. Scantley's head tilted imperceptibly as he examined the man.

Laney "Big Rack" Rackenham had been a sort of living legend amongst thieves. He was a sort of child prodigy, being only eighteen at the time he pulled his first major heist; overpowering a brahmin convoy and herding it back to his charge in just under a day. Rackenham had almost exclusively worked for the Tumbler's Committee, a sort of "thieves' guild" in the upper Midwest of the American Wasteland. It was one of the largest organized crime associations in recent history, its influence stretching across the American continent from the Capital Wasteland to New Arroyo and from the irradiated wreckage of Minneapolis to the bloodstained streets of Dallas. It was rumored to employ between two hundred fifty and four hundred thieves at any time, operating in any particular division of the country at any given time, and to be hailed as good was a feat in and of itself; to be called one of the best could be considered impossible.

"Last time I checked my card," Laney chuckled, grinning, "I was Laney Rackenham." Scantley scowled at this statement. If there was one thing the Tumbler's Committee was good at, it was being blatantly obvious about what it did. Although _officially_ the Committee didn't exist, its "members" were still referred to as "Tumblers" and every one of them got a photo ID card identifying by their name and occupation and referring to them as an "Honored Member of the National Tumblers' Society", otherwise known as the Tumbler's Committee. Scant thought it was overly cocky.

"What do you want, Rackenham?" Scantley grunted, not even bothering to mask his open hostility towards the younger thief. If Laney was hurt by the tone, his coy, grinning expression didn't show it. The thief stood up and extended his hand to Scantley.

"The Committee wants to hire you," Laney explained. "We want you to fix a problem."

_{End Chapter}_

**A/N: **Sorry about the delay in cranking this chapter out, I've been hella busy lately. Anyways, read and review as always and say something if you have a suggestion, a problem, want to make a cameo in the novel, etc. etc. Or if you just want to harass me; I can take what you're giving.

P.S, someday I might actually get around to describing what our heroes look like… Possibly.


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